Hannah Hart - Character Study
by Doctor Smarty Pants
Summary: Small piece on character study. My very first publication. Not revised by others yet, suggestions are more than welcome. DISCLAIMER: "All characters and events in this story – even those based on real people – are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to real persons, living, dead or undead, is purely coincidental and does not reflect reality."


It's a blatant truth that women are raised with these unachievable ideas sewed and sewer-ed into their minds: Tales of perfect Princes who sweep you away with their charm, royal blood, good manners, bravery and romanticism. What it's rarely thought about is: When you realize you're not waiting for Prince Charming to come rescue you from your misery, because, well, you would rather spend your life alone in a tower than have to share it forever with a man (romantically), what are your thoughts? Do you stay a helpless Princess waiting now for your courageous Princess/Knight-Lady to rescue you or you turn into a female version of the Prince himself and go about searching for your Damsel in distress?

Hannah knew she was not the type to lay in a coma waiting for rescue (not any longer, not after trying to 'pray away the gay' and failing miserably) and, as far as she could relate, she didn't have as much masculinity in her to be the dragon-slaying Casablanca Prince either (even if she thought of herself as a respectable Top). She liked to think about herself as an upgraded version of the Princess in the tower: Not just comatosing there, but also seeking other princesses; not killing her way to them, but conquering their hearts by being as charming and romantic as the Prince would and, of course, not just courting, but also being courted.

That much Hannah had already figured out years before as she tried to survive her first break-up ever, but what little she had thought about was the goal of her quest: The Perfect Woman.

Yes, she thought over and over again about her choices and how frustrating women can be. Not to mention plain cruel. But the deeper analysis was still lacking.

Like said before - with books, films and all sorts of media - since the beginning of times, girls have patriarchal and condescending ideas tattooed into their minds, and these ideas, even when after long periods of reflection and self-analysis (and never without them), rarely change.

"Hannah, we need to talk." Announced the taller blonde across the table. Her words unlocked wheels in Hannah's mind as they sounded too familiarly.

In search for a perfection she herself couldn't achieve any more - when she finally came to terms with the fact that she was indeed 'that kid', the gay one -, Hannah dove into her romantic life carrying all sorts of mislabeled loads with her.

She didn't realize that the artificial and socially idealized beauty she sought - slim, tall and blonde - along with all the other requirements for a Perfect Modern Woman- being powerfully feminine, caring, dedicated, talented and professionally accomplished - were just by-products of these Medieval ideals. That the requirement for not only a beautiful body, but also an adorning compassionate soul and a bright mind were much more than innocuous preferences one chose to have.

Hannah had never reflected upon that. All she could feel and say is that she is attracted to Beauty. External and internal Beauty. That's what she always told herself. But now, as the blonde called her, she was slowly realizing that even though she never took Freud seriously, maybe the old man could throw one or two enlightening facts her way.

"Hannah?" The blonde asked again as the blue-eyed woman stared at her bowl.

Coming from a house where too soon you become responsible for yourself and for the ones who were meant to take care of you, Hannah realized where her need to take control of her own destiny, to not feel impotent in the face of adversities, came from.

She wants, no, she **needs**, someone who needs her. Not in a crippling and overwhelming way which was demanded from her before, but in an empowering one. She wants to get power for once. Have the upper hand.

Also, what's more ego polishing than having a woman that all others desire to call your own? To have her tell the world she's yours and yours only? To have her tell you that she needs you? And to see that it is true? But Hannah doesn't actively process these thoughts. After reading a myriad of books she knows that when talked about, ego is constantly put on the 'bad list'. 'Free yourself from your ego', philosophers and religious figures say.

But what is of us without our egos? They are the gems of our identities. We shouldn't dismiss them so easily. Or blame all our wrongs on them.

"Huh?" Hannah rose her sight to the blonde's eyes.

"We need to talk." She repeated in a cold voice. But as Hannah's eyes winced in betrayal of her worry, she emended herself with a warmer tone. "I'd like to talk to you."

"Oh, ok. Are you ok?" She asked honestly as she reached for the woman's hand and laid hers over gently, her voice smooth and caring.

"Yeah, h-hmm,.." The blond tried and stop for a beat to breathe a little deeper. "I think this is not working anymore." She said as she involuntarily moved her hand away from Hannah. "**We** are not working anymore." She explained further.

"Oh!..." The Youtuber exclaimed as she tried to mask her surprise and reclaimed her own hands. She knew it was coming. But yet she was surprised. Like in a horror film when you know it's coming, but they get you anyway. She wasn't devastated, on the contrary, but she didn't want to believe it either. Truth is that she wasn't completely surrendered into this relationship - or any other that came after the very fatidical one -, but the words still hurt like the prick of a needle into her ego.

"Before you ask, there's no one else." The other blond added before Hannah could manage to produce any elaborated reaction.

The disproportional responsibilities and experiences some of us are obliged with, specially at young age, make huge dents into our personalities, into our egos. And we are oblivious to the fact that when you deny yourself for too long, you find yourself undeserving of an identity. Undeserving of desires and flaws of your own. Everything becomes about the object of your care and about the others who suffer alongside with you. Hannah, you, me, WE erase - day after day - our wills to free up space to the ones of the people who demand it from us. Explicitly or not, we're constantly making decisions in favour of friends, lovers, colleagues, family.

But as we grow and achieve small victories, we forget how impressionable we are, both as children and as adults. We like to think that we are Masters and Mistresses of our destinies. That our choices and preferences descend only from our own extraordinaire uniqueness and will. That our minds are brilliant and independent. That we are able to separate ourselves from the world as if we can rise above it. That we can go through negative experiences only to come out better, brighter, unshattered. But the truth is that that doesn't always happen. Even when we think we have nothing else that ties us to that night our own parents abjured us or that time when we were asked not to tell anyone else about who we are, we still have. We still struggle to wear that beanie. We still refrain from using those words. We still catch ourselves being censured in our minds. We still doubt our self-confidence. We still look away. Because sometimes the space people took in us, and from us, is filled with them permanently. And we don't even realize that.

By now Hannah was getting more and more convinced that she purposefully blinded herself to many of the world's realities. What many things she wasn't aware of that related directly to her?

The human mind is a funny thing, huh?

How easily we can obsess with rationality and logic. As if learning the mechanisms of biology and physics, of psychology and Medicine, of all the letter and numbers would ever spare us the pain of life's unpredictability.

We know so much, but realize so little. Silly how we actively rationalize other people's actions and words, even our owns, as a form of protection, fabricating excuses and explanations, slowly forging shields between us.

You grew up to be told - many times non-verbally - that you don't reach the expectations that are set for you. That you are intrinsically flawed and wasteful. _'We wanted you to be thinner'. _They demand. _'For your health'. _They excuse._ 'If only you were more delicate'... 'How can you find a boyfriend if you dress like this?' _And you manage to create the purest of intentions in their hearts, freeing them from a responsibility that is not yours to claim while the surrounding people, when not saying, are thinking. Expressing with actions as they buy you dresses as Christmas gifts. When they remember the date at all.

"I understand..." Hannah let out after a long pause. "I don't want to ever make-"

You're not tall enough. You're not fit enough. You're not dedicated enough. Your profession is not prestigious enough. You're not straight enough.

At least one of these idealistic and corruptive ideas have been forced into your face more than once. And over and over again you pretend that you come stronger at the end of each battle. Yes, there were times when you openly felt lost and damned personally by the hand of God. But now you're a self-sufficient woman, a grown up with her own house, with plants, nuts for the visitors. You even have your very own sense of style, you do not let the gender impositions of society constrain you. Your job is on the very edge of alternativeness, you love football open and loudly, against any morals you were raised in you masturbate (still guiltily when one of your friends cross your mind at that time) and you have sex before marriage. WITH WOMEN. 'Suck on that, oppressive society!' You may want to shout in your head as you make an intentional pun. You are free of the shackles that slaved you for so long. Or are you?

"-you unhappy. But we can talk this through first, right?" She offered. Our blonde knows much of the world and of the tricks of the human mind, yet she fails to reckon and destroy her own traps. We cheer for her in the distance for she is our favourite anyway and the story still continues.

When was the last time you heard your parent's voice in your mind telling you that your clothes are not appropriate for a woman?

When was the last time you heard them saying that only delinquents tattoo their bodies? Pierce? Or alter them in any satanic way?

That women who shave their heads are either sick or disgusting homosexuals?

Remember last week when that guy gave you that weird look at the airport? Even though it's Los Angeles and you're pretty sure that he himself was not the poster child of heterosexuality?

"Yeah, sure. I just think that our schedules..." The other blonde start, but her words fade in the back of Hannah's mind.

Yes, you attended one of the most prestigious universities in your country, hell, in the world. And yes, you speak Japanese (Not as well as you'd like and you still run in your mind all the mistakes you ever made in public. 'Ah, Takei-san...mōshiwakearimasen.').

The voices in your mind are quieter when you think in Japanese - not the very ones you feared for so long, but the ones that really damage your being - almost as if you could truly think what you want without being censored. You can say words and conjure ideas otherwise unbearable to you in English. Our minds never cease to surprise us as we contemplate the indescribable freedom Language can bring to our souls. Like if with the old Language you could also strip yourself from all the judgment and shame.

Many times you wanted to share your desires and aspirations with another person, but many times more you found yourself unable to produce the words out of your mouth. What will they think? What if they tell? What if? Your censors live no longer, yet their space is damagingly taken within yourself.

Despite of Life, you got your degrees in what really interested you and the Universe congratulates you on that. By each day, you walked closer and closer to that ideal you had in mind. Life took a different turn once or twice and you find yourself here: self-employed, out of the closet and dating (at least up to this very millisecond of a moment).

But how much effort did you **really** put into all of it? Yes, sacrifices were made. You've answered for your loved ones when the responsibilities came. But they weren't really sacrifices for you, were they? When you've been through what you've been through, the numbness of the oppressing quotidian gets you far ahead of where others would've stopped.

You act and react compelled by what is expected of you, without even realizing so.

_'Come on, Hannah. You deserve better. You deserve a beautiful and bright woman.'_ Your mind replays your friend's voices of when they last gave you solace.

No one of them mentions that what you really deserve is someone like you. Not more, not less. An equal. They, as well, are immersed in the fable.

But what is to deserve someone like you? Won't she be beautiful? She will. Just as you are to her, she'll be to you. And she'll be bright? Yes, you'll never fall short in conversations, opinions and discussions.

But more than any of that, she'll be caring and trustworthy. It's easy to find someone who wants to take you, kiss you and fuck you. Perhaps even someone who brings you flowers and buys you dinner. But the one you want to keep is the one who's able to slap you across the face when you need it, even if it hurts them the most; the one who knows your flaws and embraces your defects, not the one who's blind to them.

You deserve someone who's able to keep your darkest secrets with her own life, someone who'll share hers with will as the utmost gesture of trust. Who's willing to give you even what you unspokenly desire.

If you're willing to be that person to someone, why aren't people willing to be yours?

And then you realize, how could anyone even try if you don't even know what is it that you want? You don't admit it even to yourself? That you have fears and needs? That you feel powerless and ashamed? That you're not just vanilla and that's not unworthy of you? That you're real and fallible.

"... also, I don't know, I'm not feeling very comfortable with going out in public together. It's very risky." The taller blond continued and the slice of sentence emerged to Hannah's attention. The woman's voice continued as it sank back into the darkness once again.

But when will you treat yourself to a new reality? Is this the moment? You hesitate and your thinking goes tangent. The fear of commitment, of not being enough, they still haunt you. Sometimes you freeze at the idea of losing your child, of mistreating your wife or becoming an invalid. You sweat at the thought of being the hurtful one.

Life is overwhelming and you want to go to an idealized, perfect place. You want to run away. Instead you make a joke. You're a crowd-pleaser, that's how you cope.

Friends and colleagues and strangers in the street find you funny. You sometimes find yourself funny too.

No, you always find yourself funny. It's like you have these disease that compels you to lighten your surroundings, to ultimately please and entertain people. You wonder (truly, you know) where you got that feeling of responsibility from.

But as you are the main character for the show you put up for the public, very few, if anyone at all, know what really goes through your mind. As if, if you let them into your head, they could travel too easily to your heart and that's dangerous business. Too dangerous in fact.

You hold your breath imperceptibly as you make a pun to or near a potential mate as you wait for their reaction. You think you lack the Royal blood and bravery.

Sometimes their eyes are condescending and there's nothing you fear most. You hate feeling like a child, that you're not good enough, that other women laugh behind your back and would not even consider going for you even for a moment. Or if they did, it'd all be just a game. You don't want to sound paranoid, so you move to your next thought.

You look at the woman in front of you. Really look. Not just stare through like you've been doing the last couple of minutes. You remember when you first started out, when your inebriated inhibitions got the best of you:

Again you let a pun slip while with friends at a small get-together. As expected your heart and mind hiccup a beat as you wait. But this time she laughs, laughs honestly and offers you an inviting smile. You can feel yourself growing from within, even if just for the sake of matching your now proud straightened-up pose. The room is taken by people, but it's like she is all that exists for miles and miles.

Sometimes a woman will find it funny that thing you do, all cute and all. Sometimes she'll even go further and find it attractive. But most of the times, only the girls will. _Why there are so many little girls who say they love you?_ The questions hunts you as you find the answer to be unfair. _What are they? 16, 17, sometimes 18. Ever so rarely someone closer to your age. Someone of your milieu. Someone truly interesting. And when they come along..._

"...so I guess that we would be just postponing the inevitable, right?" The other blond finished, snapping Hannah back into reality. "I hope we can remain friends. As before." She added the false promise politely.

And right then of two things you are sure: You like women, not girls - woman like the one sitting across from you and ending it all - and that being a tall handsome man in your next life would be number one in your list. Throw rich and Caucasian in the pot for good measure. No more having to see your ex-girlfriends move on to dicks and marriage.

Hannah sighs disappointed at the laughability of the idea. Her heart resonates in her chest.

"But I, we..." Our small blonde tries to find a reason to end her sentence. All she can think about is that she's not asking for much: house, puppies, wife, kids. The usual. The average. The comfortable.

Within each category, of course, you know you deserve better, you want better. A better house than you grew up in, a loyal canine always by your side, a sexy high-heeled successful lawyer/ insert here any renowned professional (who's also bilingual and works for a charity on weekends), healthy spawn who luckily are cute as buttons and as bright as their mothers...

You can feel your heart beating faster as a devastating thought downs on you.

_OMG! I'm that person. I'm THAT person._

_I've just been dumped and...Is that it?! Do I really think that? I'm sad for myself. I'm sad for losing a potential wife?_

_Shit, fuck! Do I use people as adornments of my __**ego**__? I mean, how can I...? OMG!_

_I USE PEOPLE AS A MEAN...As a mean to fulfil... my suppressed need for achieving perfection! _No, she didn't actually thought that, but as the time passes the author pushes the story harder. We all cheer for the petit blonde. Let's just think of it as that bright giant light bulb awarded to special characters.

_The perfect girlfriend... the perfect wife. The perfect house. Perfect kids. Perfect...No! I can't be that superficial, can I? I have two degrees! I'm attracted to all forms of Beauty! I'm a good person! I would never mistreat a person for not being ugly, I'm just not attracted to them._

You panic in your mind, trying to reason with yourself as you feel your heart pound oddly against your ribs. You breathe irregularly while the woman across from you – mistakenly - sits torn between thinking that you're overreacting to what you said _and_ that you're having a proper anxiety attack.

"Hannah..." The blonde tried in a soft voice as she reached for the other woman's hands. "Hannah, let's just calm down for a sec, ok? Breathe with me."

That's not just because you like being around Beauty and Intelligence, you realize. You want to be proud of your woman, whoever she is and there's nothing wrong with that. Everybody wants to feel important to someone else.

Yes, that's perfectly normal...But nobody wants to feel like a prize you get just for the sake of it, do they? People want to feel prized, for who they are, not for what others will think of you for being with them, not for how they look in your shelf of desirable possessions.

Time ran compressed as Hannah inhaled and exhaled forcefully twice, trying to stabilize her breathing and heart rate.

"Perhaps I **AM** sabotaging myself." She said mostly to herself, looking like she'd just been blessed with the ultimate algorithm for Sudoku's solving.

Hannah's heart and respiration rates slowed down and her now **ex**-girlfriend waits for a reaction. "I'm sorry it didn't work out. And yes, I hope we can still be friends." She offered with a smile- drowned in a sudden tranquility - as she put her hands back in her lap.

You better yourself, day by day, as a challenge against what Life put you through and at the same time you put your standards higher and higher into the unachievable. But if you aim only for perfection, especially one based on a castle of manufactured lies, you set yourself to disappointment. The disappointment of not being perfect enough.

Someday, perhaps, you'll learn to look yourself in the mirror and contemplate your true partner. Perhaps that day is today.


End file.
